


Salacity

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mermaid, Breathplay, Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-28
Updated: 2011-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur can't quite recall why he's dreaming of being cast away at sea...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salacity

Arthur's on a raft, a flimsy makeshift thing in the middle of a broad empty ocean. He's completely naked, and he can feel his skin reddening already under the fierce sunlight that batters down at him. He looks around. There's no land anywhere, no sinking ship, nothing from which he could have fallen: ,just blue sky like an inverted bowl, gold sun, green-gold waves. Something pale glimmers beneath the surface of the sea. Shark?

Worse.

It's Eames. Eames with his sea-coloured eyes huge and whiteless, his crooked teeth more pointed, more of them, than Arthur's skin remembers them, his fingers clawing up into the air to clasp Arthur's wrist. The webbing between those familiar fingers is broader, scalier, more pronounced than ...

"This is a dream," Arthur reminds himself. He can't quite recall why he's dreaming of being cast away at sea, sole survivor of some catastrophe. (He recalls not being able to breathe. He recalls the press of a hand, oddly gentle, against his throat, closing his windpipe, making the world black around the edges. He recalls ...) "We're dreaming. We're in your dream."

Eames grins at him with far too many teeth, but doesn't speak. He simply _pulls_ , and Arthur lets himself fall. Out of the hot dry air and into the cool green sea, water like iced silk on his scorched skin, salt piquant at his lips, bones of his wrist grinding in Eames' hold.

Eames' mouth tastes of Eames. Though his lips are cold, his tongue is familiarly hot. Arthur can't breathe, but Eames breathes _into_ him, and somehow it's fresh cool air, and Arthur takes a moment to marvel at Eames' lung capacity. He moves his hand down Eames' back -- the scales there are rough and razor-edged, and blood wisps up from his fingertips -- to feel the ribcage flex and expand beneath his palm, bestowing breath, keeping him quick.

The sea stings his eyes, blurs his sight. Eames' scales are every shade from sapphire to bronze, patterned in swirls and lines like the ink that Arthur's traced so often with his tongue, his hands, his teeth. Now Arthur explores by touch, still kissing -- no, still being kissed by -- Eames, timing each movement to the gasp of air that Eames grants him. There's no rhythm to his breathing now. He takes what he's given, what he can get, and doesn't question what or why or how or where. He's pressed against Eames' body, which is no warmer than the surrounding sea. He's pressed, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, hips to ...

He can't feel Eames' dick: he can't feel Eames' legs. There's no ... Arthur can't think of the word. No _bifurcation_. The muscles hard against his own thighs are a fish's tail, and somewhere beyond his feet there's the draught, the current, of fins. Arthur can feel the negligent strength of them, the way the water moves around himself and Eames, the way that Eames buoys them both with no more effort than the tapping of a foot.

Arthur's spatial awareness has deserted him, floating up up and away with the silvery bubbles that tickle his nose, his eyelashes, his temple. He glances upwards. The surface of the sea above them is a rippled mirror, solid as a ceiling, refracting golden light down through the green water. Receding, thinks Arthur. We're going deeper, deeper.  
It's getting harder to think. He doesn't need to think. All he can do is breathe what Eames gives him, smooth his stinging fingers over rough scales and smooth, down to where Eames' penis would be if he were still human. There's nothing -- no, there's a soft-frilled slit, and when Arthur's fingers trail across it, Eames squirms against him, gasping more precious breath into Arthur's lungs. Eames' hand, taloned and webbed, is wrapping roughly around Arthur's dick, jacking him, each stroke matched with another scant mouthful of air. Around them the darkness is flooding in like high tide, and Arthur doesn't know what he wants most, doesn't know if he craves air or orgasm or waking from this cold cruel ecstasy.

Eames is kissing him harder, giving him less, biting at his mouth so Arthur can't help gasping, and precious air spirals up around them both. Eames' eyes are _glowing_ now, intent, and Arthur can't look away, can't look at the fading light above him or the lightning-shot night, crimson and black, that rushes up and in and out of him as he comes.

There's no more air. There's no more thought. There's no more fight in him, and he lets himself hang limp in Eames' tightening arms, feeling a grainy rush over his fingers as Eames groans into his mouth. It’s milt, not semen, clouding ‘round them both, glittery as life; mingling with the ropey pearls of Arthur’s own seed, sparking like salt wherever it touches skin.

Arthur wakes alone, the taste of the sea still on his tongue. When he turns his head against the pillow, he can smell Eames.

He breathes in deeply, savouring the scent.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the_ragnarok for betaing this, initially intended as her birthday fic!  
> First draft written, whilst dripping wet, on a Canarian beach after swimming with the fishes.


End file.
